Chapter 51
51
Natalie
I f you’d asked me to picture makeup sex, I guess I would have said slow and tender. Or maybe really intense—some angst, a bunch of eye contact.
But Preston?
Wants to play.
And I am so, so here for it.
As soon as the door closes behind us, Preston kisses me. The briefest, lightest touch. Then again, teasing. Nipping. Pulling away as soon as I try to get more. He grins at me, and I can’t help smiling back, overcome, as I so frequently am with him, by how much I like him.
He kisses me again, harder, but as soon as I try to deepen the kiss, he draws away. Kisses a line from the sensitive shell of my ear along my tingling jawline to my mouth—but won’t kiss my mouth.
I groan and reach for him, but he angles my hands out of the way, not letting me touch him, not letting me grab at his clothes.
“Oh, so that’s how it is?” I tease.
“I missed you,” he says simply. “I missed playing with you. I missed how fun you are.”
“Not just fun, though, right?” I ask, doubt crowding in.
He draws back so he can read my face—and that’s what it is. A long, slow perusal, like he’s trying to understand exactly what I need.
“Is that what you’re afraid of?” he asks.
I nod.
“That this is just a good times thing?”
I nod again.
“Because that asshole…?”
I nod until my neck hurts.
“I’m not him,” he says. “This is a good times thing and a bad times thing. It’s a fun thing and a serious thing.” He’s quiet for a second, letting me see how much he means it, holding my gaze with his. “It’s everything . I love all the things you are, Natalie.”
Then he kisses me again, long and hard and sweet, a kiss I feel all the way to my core and in every nerve ending. When we break it to breathe, I say, “It’s everything for me, too.” And then, “But we can play if you want to play.”
That makes him laugh. “I do,” he says, and then he backs me toward the bed and tips me over onto it, crawling over me.
“You’re wearing way too many clothes,” he says and starts trying to wrestle me out of them. I fight back, going after his clothes, too, and we’re laughing and wrestling and tangling ourselves up. At some point, breathless, we find ourselves naked, and he lowers himself over me, kissing me, his hard, muscular body smooth and hot except where his hair tickles and abrades me exactly right. And now neither of us is laughing, though we’re still breathless.
He’s serious for a split second, eyes on mine: “You want this?”
“I want this,” I say.
“Say ‘pastry’ if you need an out,” he says, reaching for a condom and rolling it on, gaze dark and fierce in a way that makes my whole body hot.
“Got it,” I say, and then he’s on me, growling, pinning me, while I struggle under him. And it feels so good, the play, the resistance, his weight. So good, too good, his cock hard as fuck and grinding down on me, right where I need him, his chest hair rubbing my nipples, and I’m already coming for him.
He tests me with two fingers, licks them clean with his eyes sharp on my face, watching my reaction—and you’d think I’d be too satisfied and boneless, but I feel that lick and suck all the way down, a hot clench of my inner muscles, and I moan and part my legs for him.
“Yeah?” he says.
“Yeah,” I tell him.
But it’s not enough for him.
“I want to hear you say it,” he says.
“I want you inside me,” I say.
“Say it dirtier,” he instructs.
I grin at him. “Or?”
“Or I won’t do it.”
“Preston Hott,” I say, “you are the most fun ever. ” And I whisper into his ear, “I need you to fuck me right now, you hear me?”
And because this man is fun just for me, he does.